


I will wait.

by Alexander_Slamilton



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1782, Alexander is a good friend, Angst, Because I am in Denial, Henry Laurens is not an asshole in this fic, Hurt/Comfort, John Laurens deserved better tbh, M/M, a history au, and crying over founding fathers, and french, and the marquis is there, because every one loves the marquis, but also fluff, but au, by the way, glorious fluff, its basically what should have happened in 1782, john gets shot, just so you know, my smol revolutionary war sons are back, so did Alexander Hamilton, there is quite a graphic description of a bullet wound, though he probably was one irl, very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Slamilton/pseuds/Alexander_Slamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" “When you said the person you would marry for love was out of reach, you really didn't mean Angelica Church did you?”</p><p>“Non, mon Laurens, je n’ai pas,” Alexander said "</p><p>Another historical fic, because I just can't leave the revolutionary war alone... Also because you know what happened and I am in denial so badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will wait.

 

 

John Laurens could see it coming, see the bullet as it punched through the blue coat he was wearing. He could see the blood billow out like crimson rose petals against the material. He felt it hot and wet against his skin. Then he felt pain. Scorching, searing, sharp pain, coming from just below his ribs on his left side. He’d twisted at the last minute, though he wasn't grateful, if he had met the bullet straight on he’d be dead and the pain would be no more. Something, he couldn't name it, had made him twist to shout an order at his men; something had kept him alive. Though his pain fogged brain he saw his men rushing to his side; he felt their hands grabbing him, putting pressure on the wound. He felt the hard wood of the cart he was shoved on to. He could hear the cries of his men, telling him to stay alive. To hold on. That a doctor was on his way. He tried to find words, he searched his head, trying to articulate how he felt; who he needed. _Alexander._ He wanted his Hamilton, he needed his Alexander. _I will wait for you._ He sent the silent thought to his love. And then something, nameless, but angelic was drifting over him, blanketing him in unconsciousness. 

 

Through the mist and fog in his head, the only thought that prevailed was his Alexander. His love’s face swam before his eyes, before he fully materialised in front of John’s eyes. Alexander was screaming for him to wake up, to hold on. So he did. He found the thread of light that hung before him and grasped it with both hands. _I will wait._

 

“Jacky, Jacky wake up,” the voice crept out of the darkness, pouring life into him and John Laurens took a breath. The air gushing down his throat in a painful wave. “Thank God, my son, my son.” He opened his eyes and saw his father, brushing back the sweat soaked hair from his eyes. 

 

“Father wh-“

 

“You got shot, you great fool,” his father took his hand, “you were dead, the doctor said you were dead.”

 

“‘M not now,” John coughed, tasting blood, he reached for a napkin and spat a great globule of black out.

 

“No, no you’re not. Why’d you do it, Jacky, even you’re not stupid enough to think you could survive that, why’d you do it?”

 

“I,” he coughed again, but no blood found its way up his throat, “I- I cannot say,” his shoulders slumped.

 

“Would you like me to write Martha? She deserves to know, son, she _deserves_ to brought out here,” his father fixed him with a base that spoke everything he knew his father thought of him. 

 

“Write her, tell her I will bring her over when it is safe for her and Frances,” he said, slumping further down in his pillows. His side a burning reminder of just how close to death he had been. 

 

“Is there anyone else you would like me to write?”

 

“Tell- tell Hamilton, he’d want to know, and the Marquis if you can. I was supposed to be joining Alexander at Congress this month.”

 

“Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis? Very well. The doctor said not to move from this bed until he can examine you again. I’ll fetch him.”

 

“Thank you, father,” when silence descended upon the room, the pain in his side flared up so badly he saw stars. John gasped for air through a throat that felt as though there was something stuck in it. He felt everything his body had been protecting him from. The scratch of the bed clothes against his raw skin, the pressure at his side; how his breaths burnt his throat. He closed his eyes and thought of Alexander. 

 

“Mr Laurens, sir-“

 

“Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, thank you, I am still part of the army,” John said, fully aware that he was being rather rude. 

 

“Lieutenant Colonel, the bullet pierced through the left side of you abdomen, luckily it missed your liver. If it had not, you would likely be dead. As it stands, you must have had a guardian angel looking out for you; the bullet hit nothing particularly important,” the doctor moved to John’s side, lifting the blankets away and exposing him to the chilled air. He lifted John’s blood stained shirt from his body, the hairs on his skin prickled from the cold. “See here, I have removed the bullet and stitched it up.” the doctor pointed to the red, angry wound. The stitches stopped most of the blood, thought there was still some seeping through. “I will reopen the wound in two days, then I will pour rum on it and stitch it back up.” 

 

“I see,” he said between pained breaths. 

 

“Though, Lieutenant Colonel, I can not say whether you will walk properly again,” the doctor looked up at him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Excuse me?” John felt a rush of cold, as though someone had dowsed him with freezing water; he grew dizzy and his throat closed again. 

 

“The bullet, it was close to your spine, I did all I could but it may have grazed it. I will not give you false hope, I can’t say for certain whether or not you will walk again. Your body may simply be too weak.” 

 

“I- I-“

 

“Its a lot to take in, I’ll leave you to it, unless you’ve anymore questions? I will prescribe you some laudanum for the pain. Use it sparingly,” the doctor scribbled notes on his parchment, laid it on the bedside table and walked out of the room.

 

John looked out of the window, the sunlight burning against his eyes, it streamed through the glass in broken rays. It cast long shadows against the floor, he could see the dust making patterns in the golden light. He could hear the birds in the trees outside his room. He felt the warmth of the sun against his face, and took a deep breath before turning his thoughts to what the doctor had said. John was a soldier. He had been a soldier for over five years. He didn't know what else he could do. He didn't know what he would do without the use of his legs. He tried to wiggle his toes, but he could not feel them. He couldn't move his legs, he couldn't feel his legs. He screamed, he screamed until his throat burned and his head pounded and his wound throbbed. He screamed until his father burst into the room, until he was scooped; cradled in his fathers arms.

 

“Jack, Jacky what is it?” His father asked, stroking his hair. 

 

“I can’t feel my legs, I can’t feel my legs, oh god,” he choked on the words, as if speaking them made them real. 

 

“You’ve had a hard few days, son, rest. The feeling may still come back,” his father dabbed a cooling cloth over his sweat soaked forehead. “You must rest, Jacky. Get some sleep, I’ll send one of the girls in here to close the shutters.” 

 

“Yes, yes fine,” John muttered, unable to think clearly. 

 

***

 

“Alexander, a letter arrived for you today,” Eliza said, walking into the office. 

 

“I’ll read it in a minute, its from Laurens,” Alexander waved a hand, looking back to his books and picking up his discarded quill.

 

“No, its not, its from his father,” Eliza moved to stand behind her husband, she tried to hand it to him.

 

Alexander felt the panic bubbling up in his throat, he could feel the butterflies moving about in his stomach as the realisation of what Eliza just said crept up on him from behind. His brain raced to find answers to questions he asked himself. _Was Laurens dead?_ He couldn't bare to think what he would do if that were true. 

 

“Would you read it for me, my love,” he said, not wishing to look at the parchment with his own eyes. 

 

“Of course. On Tuesday the 27th my son was shot in a gunfight with British troops leaving South Carolina. I can confirm that he is awake and of sound mind. One of his first thoughts was of you, Lt. Colonel Hamilton, he is keen for you to visit him as recovers. He sends his regrets that he will not be able to join you in Congress, this month as he wished to. Yours, Henry Laurens.”

 

“He lives,” Alexander sighed, his shoulders slumping relief as he let out a breath he did not realise he was holding.

 

“He lives. He asks for you, you must go Alexander. I can run the house, you have to go to him,” Eliza said, running her hands through his hair. 

 

“I’ll leave in the morning, though I think I’ll send a letter first. A courier will reach them before me,” Alexander scrubbed a hand over his face.

 

“A wonderful idea, give John my love and tell him he’s in my thoughts,” Eliza smiled, and walked out the room, her skirts swishing as she bustled through the door. 

 

“Best of wives, how lucky I am to be blessed with you,” he said before the last of her skirts disappeared around the corner. The last thing he heard was a tinkling laugh that echoed down the corridor. 

 

He was rudely awoken by the birds that lived in the small tree outside his window. A beam of light shone directly on his face; he grumbled, how could anyone be so awake and happy in the morning. He grumbled as he unstuck the pieces of parchment off his face. He shook his hair out of its queue and re-did it in the small mirror opposite his desk. 

 

A high pitched squeal broke him out of his reverie, shattering the silence of the morning. Philip was cradled in his mother’s arms, a small bundle of noise, only a tuft of brown hair poked out of the blankets. His son wriggled, holding out his chubby arms for his dad, squealing all the while. 

 

“Hush Philip, it is far too early for this sort of noise, my boy,” he ruffled the tuft, and took one of Philip’s tiny hands in his own.

 

“I wanted you to be able to say goodbye to him, who knows how long you’ll be with John,” Eliza sniffed slightly.

 

“I shan't be too long, just until he can travel here. I still want him to join congress, he needs to learn that being a soldier isn't the only thing he can do,” Alex kissed Philip on the head, “I need to send this off with a courier, I’ll join you two for breakfast.” 

 

He had finished with the courier, the man took the letter and some of the money, he promised to ride as hard as possible to reach South Carolina before Alexander did himself. He paused before he went back to the house, he looked up at the sky and watched the clouds as they made their way across the vast expanse. He listened to the birds in their tree, he watched as the mother bird fed her children. 

 

He and John had met five years ago in 1777, during the height of the war. As soon as he had laid eyes on the other man, he had felt complete. No one in his life, not even Eliza though he loved her so, had made him feel as John did. During the war, they had both been too busy, too preoccupied to talk about how they felt. He didn't know if John felt as he did. He had thought to tell John before he went back to South Carolina but had missed the opportunity. He’d settled down, married Eliza, had Phillip and, yet John had always been on his mind. He had told Eliza, taking the risk had paid off; Eliza had merely smiled and told him that she’d known.

 

He trudged up the path and into the house, walking through the corridors to the dining room, his shoes echoing on the wood floor. He went into the dining room, and stood in the doorway watching Eliza talk to Philip. 

 

“What are you thinking?” She said, looking over at him.

 

“How beautiful you are,” he smiled, “I’m leaving right after breakfast,” he paused awkwardly moving to stand behind her and watch as Philip grabbed at her hair.

 

“Alexander, I will always love you like a brother, you are precious to me. I will love you no matter what,” they had worked it out, they loved each other just as brother and sister, not as husband and wife. 

 

“And I you. How lucky am I, to be blessed as I am,” he said as he hugged her. 

 

After breakfast, he packed a bag and left in a carriage the journey to South Carolina would take a little longer than five days. He had a lot of time to think, as he settled against the back of the carriage, watching as Eliza and Philip faded into the distance. 

 

***

 

John had been confined to his bed for days, at least his father permitted him to write. He wrote essays against slavery, the ones he and Alexander had started those years ago. He read essays that James Madison published, he read _Common Sense_ a book he had been avoiding. He even read the entirety of the Declaration. And every day, he tried to move his legs. By the end of the fourth day, his right toe was responding to his commands, it wriggled in short sharp spasms. Barely doing what it was told, but still it encouraged him enough to keep trying. Feeling still hadn't returned so much, the Doctor had pricked him with needles and he’d felt nothing. His future wavered before him, intangible, and for now, unattainable. 

 

He’d been in and out of consciousness on during the first days, especially when the doctor had reopened his wound and tipped a whole load of rum in it. It looked better now, though, the angry red flesh had been replaced with pinker, healthier looking skin. He could still feel the pain, burning through him whenever he twisted his body in slightly the wrong way. 

 

Time seemed warped, as though he was trapped in a constant dream state, like he really had died and now he was merely observing the world carrying on without him. All he knew were the four walls of his room, and whatever was in the newspaper his father sometimes gave him. There had been a few near misses, times when he very nearly had died, when the barrier between life and death for him had been like gossamer. The thing that kept him living was the thought of never seeing Alexander again. 

 

“Hamilton has sent word to us, he will be with us in less than a day. I’ll have someone prepare the green room for him?” His father asked, after dropping the paper in his lap.

 

“Could, could you possibly allow him the yellow room?” The yellow room was the one next door, the one with the connecting door into his. It was a risk, but his father knew almost how much Alexander meant to him. “He is a brother to me, he may as well be family. I am sure, once you meet him, you will see.”

 

“Very well, but he must know how much you need to rest. I do not want him galavanting around in here at all hours of the night.” 

 

“Don’t worry, father, he knows I need my rest,” John smiled, for the first time since he’d been shot, for the first time since he’d lost feeling and movement in his legs he felt a semblance of hope. 

 

“Sleep, no doubt your friends arrival will keep you from rest this afternoon,” His father eyed him curiously before striding out the room, “oh, and Henry will be back from university in the next weeks, make some time for him please.” 

 

“Yessir,” John said smiling and nodding. 

 

After the door had closed, and the sound of his fathers shoes echoing on the wood floors further down the hall had faded. He turned to staring out the window of his room, it faced on to the drive, though a tree obscured the part closest to the house. When he was little and his parents were expecting guests, he would sit on the chaise lounge and press his face up against the glass; waiting for the sound of hooves on the gravel. If he turned his head just right, he could see farther up the drive and on to the road outside, he remembered the long hours of sitting and watching guests turn up for the magnificent dinner parties his parents had. 

 

All that had changed when John was thirteen, his mother had caught a fever, she died a few months before John’s fourteenth birthday. Then his father had changed too, John had been packed up and sent Europe, and there had been no more watching out his window. He waited, noting the position of the sun against his clock, he listened for Alex’s horse. Before long, however, the twinge in his side refusing to let him have a break, he fell asleep; his head sank into the pillow, his world turned black. 

 

 

***

 

When John woke, the only light in the room came from a small, flickering candle. It rested on the table beside his bed, it had been burning for quite a while, judging by the fact the wax was spilling out the small bowl and onto the dark wood. He moved his head, and started at the sight of a dark figure sitting on the chaise, the figure’s chest moved slowly; it’s head lolled to the side, facing the window. The moonlight illuminated the figure’s hair. _Alexander._ Alexander was here, John was struck by the fact his friend hadn't woken him; a book lay open on Alex’s lap John realised he’d fallen asleep reading it. 

 

“Alexander,” John whispered, knowing from his days of sharing tent and bed with the man that even the slightest noise would wake him.

 

“John, oh, John. Was it not so long ago that I begged you to put away your sword. You utter fool,” Alexander rose from the chaise in one fluid motion, putting the book on the floor as he went. He was bare foot, legs bare from the knee of his breeches. “You could have died, and I for one would not have forgiven you. As for our French friend, I think he would’ve died the same, just so he could berate you in the after life.”

 

“It would have a noble death.”

 

“But it would have left me bereft of anyone who understands me, to my soul. I am afraid you will just have to live, if not for you then for my own selfish reasons,” Alexander moved to stand over him, one of his hands found its way to bury itself in John’s dishevelled hair, “it would have been a waste, my dearest Laurens. You know as well as I, there is no one who loves this country more than you.”

 

“I will hold on for you then,” John sniffed, voice taking on a petulant tone, “it would not have done for our last sight of each other to have been so long ago.”

 

“Precisely my sentiments. May I?” Alexander gestured to the other side of the bed. 

 

“It would be my pleasure, old Ham,” John smiled, it had been too long since they were in the same room, it had been too long since John had seen Alexander’s face. He studied it, the cheek bones and eyes with full eyelashes, almost feminine in appearance. John could hardly articulate how beautiful his friend was. 

 

“What are you thinking?” Alexander whispered in to the darkness, as the bed dipped and the familiar warmth of his body settled beside John’s.

 

“I am thinking that twenty five and married looks good on you,” John said, letting the jealousy he felt for Eliza curl into his words like hot ashes. 

 

“On the subject of wives,” Hamilton huffed out a laugh, “why did you not tell me?”

 

“I was afraid.” He choked slightly, “I was afraid you’d think less of me.”

 

“Why ever so?” Hamilton sounded confused, for a moment John was slightly proud of himself, he’d confused the great Alexander Hamilton. 

 

“Because I left her in England, with our infant daughter and now, now it is safe for her to join us out here; I can not bring myself to organise her passage,” John sighed, the confession doing nothing for the pressure that rested on his shoulders. 

 

“I do not think less of you, plenty of men and women alike marry for necessity,” Alexander said, John could hear the curl of a smile in his voice.

 

“Not you, though,” John knew he sounded bitter, in that moment, however, he did not care. 

 

“No, not I. Though I didn't marry Eliza for love.”

 

“You didn’t? I thought the two of you were smitten,” the revaluation surprised John, he could hardly have thought any different when the reports of Hamilton’s marriage surface.

 

“Not so, Eliza is a very good actress. We married because, in our world, in our present time, we are the best we could get,” Alexander has turned to face John, “we love each other as brother and sister, nothing more, nothing less.”

 

“What do you mean?” John was confused, he didn't know what Alexander meant by what he’d said. 

 

“I mean the person I would marry for love is out of reach,” sadness coloured Alex’s words, it tinged them grey where they were usually so bright and colourful. 

 

“You mean her sister?” John knew Angelica Church, she was a fiery woman, brave and bright just like Alexander himself.

 

“No, no I do not mean Angelica, though she is wonderful. Enough gossiping for tonight, it is nearly four in the morning and if your father were to find me in here tomorrow, there would be all hell to pay. Goodnight my Laurens, I will see you on the morrow.” Alex leant over and ruffled John’s hair, taking care not to jostle him too much.

 

“Goodnight, Alexander,” John mumbled, sleep already fogging his brain, the prospect of seeing Alexander in the morning made the encroaching darkness all the sweeter. Through the haze in his head, John could have sworn he felt the brush of lips against his forehead. 

 

***

 

The morning dawned bright, the sun rising early; the birds singing to it in greeting. John woke to Alexander bursting in through the connecting door and throwing open the window and nearly jumping on his bed. He was only in breeches and a shirt, his hair was out its queue; it didn’t even have a ribbon in it. The long locks tumbled down his back and covered half of his face.

 

“You can’t have left this room since you were brought in, I had an engineer in New York make this for you specially, wait but one moment,” Alexander smiled, before bustling out of the room again, like a proud mother hen. 

 

He came back in wheeling a chair, it looked like some sort of torture device. It had a high wicker back, and attached to the base were four wheels, the two in the back smaller than the two in the front. John baulked at the sight of it, and he would have fled if he’d been able to. 

 

“What in the name of all that is-“

 

“I call it a wheelchair, cause its a chair with wheels. Once you sit in it, it should give you all the mobility that you had when you had the full use of your legs. It is only a temporary measure.”

 

“What about stairs? Can it float as well?” John said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Ah, no, no it cannot float. Though, when on a flat surface, it should work well,” Alexander deflated a little at John’s scathing question, “its only for now, please, just give it a chance.”

 

“Okay, I will, I’ll try,” John was doing this for Alexander, so he didn't have to see the slump in his shoulders. So he could see the dazzling, toothy smile again.

 

“Excellent, now, I have but one more surprise for you,” Alexander had a glint in his eye, as he brandished a letter, holding it above his head.

 

“Oh? Not another wheeled monstrosity, I hope,” John grinned, wryly.

 

“Definitely not, it is a letter from someone dear to both of us, guess who?” Alexander perched on the edge of the bed, one leg folded under him, straight backed and grinning widely from ear to ear. 

 

“Not Washington?”

 

“Nay, not he.”

 

“Troup?”

 

“Non, pas lui soit,” Alexander started to chuckle, John was slightly clueless, sleep and his injury as well as the laudanum were clouding his brain.

 

“Let me see the letter,” he reached for it, but Alexander danced out of the way of his grasping hands.

 

“No, no my friend, you must guess,” Alexander said, grinning all the wider.

 

“Fine!” John folded his arms and pouted like a petulant child, “it isn’t Le Marquis, is it?”

 

“Yes! Yes, I informed him of your injury just before I left Philadelphia, he’s staying in Mount Vernon you know, with Washington. He was most distressed to know of your brush with death and told me to tell you that he is taking the first horse available to him, and riding in our direction presently,” Alexander nearly sang the last part, his clear, high pitched voice dancing round the words.

 

“No! I hope you told him not to worry, you how it makes him-“

 

“Jittery, yes I did, I told him you were alive and well, though he still insisted he was coming. Le trio de retour ensemble!” Alexander was half dancing with excitement, “I thought it would be many years since I saw your faces in the same instance again.” 

 

“Not so, for once, it seems God has smiled upon us, though who knows how long his favour will last,” John was almost crying with joy, he knew now that he had been meant to live through his injury. He would struggle through, with a little help from his friends. 

 

“Indeed, then my dearest Laurens, it is time we got you outside. You are looking more like a ghost every day,” Alexander said, moving round the bed to John’s side, “let me help get you in.” 

 

It was painful, his side felt as though it would tear open again. It did not, however, and sooner than he imagined he was sitting in the chair. Panting to catch his breath as waves of nausea crashed over him, the world spinning in front of his eyes.

 

“Shit,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

 

“Alright?” Alexander said, kneeling down in front of him, his hands on John’s knees. 

 

“Aye, just get on with it,” John gasped. 

 

“Alright, lets go,” Alexander smiled, and if he stroked John’s knee or lingered too long, John didn't say a thing. 

 

They got downstairs, with the help of three of his father’s ‘domestic help’. John smiled up at Alexander, as his friend took hold of the handles the protruded out the back of the chair. Alexander wheeled him all the way through the house to the back porch, where they could sit and look out on the rolling fields. The trees swayed in the September wind, the air was hot and thick. John tilted his head back and breathed in deeply, savouring the feeling of air on his face.

 

“Never, have I been happier to be outside in this hot soup you southerners call air.” Alexander said, “I’ve barely been outside in a while myself, I had to travel down by carriage, because of the chair.”

 

“I see.” He took a deep breath, “Alexander,” John turned to face his friend.

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Thank you.” He said, gesturing to the chair.

 

“It was nothing you wouldn’t have done for me,” Alexander looked at him and smiled, “at least, I would have hoped you’d do the same for me.” 

 

“Of course I would have.” 

 

They sat in silence, and before them, the morning turned into the afternoon, neither commented much when one of the girls brought some ham and bread outside to them. A platter of fruit was brought out after, which attracted what seemed like every wasp in South Carolina to John’s porch. 

 

“Wasps are truly the devil incarnate, no?” Alexander said, brushing one away from him.

 

“I agree, they should be sent back to the fiery depths from whence they came.”

 

“Indeed,” the silence descended again, but it was warm and friendly. The sort of silence that is only created when two people who know each other as deeply as though they are the same person. John revelled in it, stretching out as far as the chair would let him. 

 

“Jacky! Jacky! You’re up!” heels clacked along the wood of the porch, a woman, holding up long skirts and pulling along a small girl. “Father told me not to let you out of bed for another three days at least. Oh, you must be Mr Hamilton.”

 

“Martha I am perfectly fine, Alexander, meet my sister Martha. And hiding behind her is my other sister, Mary.”

 

“A pleasure to meet you, madam,” Alexander said, standing and taking Martha’s hand in his. “And you, Madam.” Alex turned to Mary and grasped her hand as she blushed and giggled slightly.

 

“Likewise, Jacky has hardly stopped talking about you since he heard you were coming. I fear I know far more about you than you do about me.”

 

“I do hope he has said nothing damning,” Alex quipped leaning against the railing.

 

“No, indeed, one would think you some sort of heavenly being, the way Jack speaks of you.”

 

“Then, I fear should I talk no more, it would do naught but sully your impression of me.” 

 

“You are far too charming for your own good, Alexander Hamilton, now, Martha assure father that I am more than fine. Alexander has been taking excellent care of me. I feel that the fresh air is doing me a world of good.” John waved his hand, dismissing his sister’s fears. 

 

“If something does happen to you then, it is not my responsibility. Take good care of my brother, Mr Hamilton-“

 

“Alexander, please.”

 

“Alexander, then, take good care of my brother, I rather like him.”

 

“I will, madam.” Alexander bowed slightly as Martha dragged Mary off the porch an into the house. “You did not tell me your sister was so beautiful.”

 

“They both are, though you are a married man, Alexander.”

 

“I know, it was merely a comment. Fear not, I would not deflower your sisters.” Alexander smiled, thinking _they are not the most beautiful of the Laurens’ to me._ Though he did not say it. 

 

***

 

The weeks flowed more quickly now, the days blending into happy memories of time spent with Alexander. The Marquis arrived, late in the first week; bringing sincere well wishes from Washington. The men, though inside they felt like boys, spent lazy afternoons outside under a weeping willow. The branches of the tree brushed the ground, making a tent like space inside. Lafayette and Hamilton would hoist John down from the chair and lean him up against the trunk of the tree. The sun streamed through the gaps in the branches, casting dappled shadows on the grass. 

 

Alexander had brought a writing board and ink with him, listening to Lafayette’s arguments against slavery. Scribbling hurriedly on the parchment. John watched them, the two men who he loved more than anyone else in the whole world. His brother was returning from university on the morrow; he was looking forward to seeing him but it would limit the time he could spend with Alexander and Lafayette. 

 

“John?”

 

“Laurens?” John was startled out of his reverie by Alexander’s face hovering a couple of inches from his own. 

 

“Yes?” He said, pushing Alex away from him.

 

“What would you say to accompanying me when I go back to Philadelphia next month?”

 

“You want me to move to Philadelphia with you?” John’s heart jumped at the thought of being close to Alexander all the time. 

 

“Je vais obtenir un peu de ce thé sucré dont Jemima parlait, je serai de retour bientôt.” Lafayette said, standing, brushing the dirt off his breeches. 

 

“Why are you speaking in french all of a sudden?” John said, Lafayette hadn't spoken french in all the time he’d been there.

 

“No reason, á tout de suite,” Lafayette ducked between the branches, brushing them aside and stooping low. 

 

“See you, later then,” Alexander said. 

 

The two men looked at each other, communicating without words. John raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, Alexander looked down, not meeting John’s gaze for more than a moment.

 

“What was that about? I didn’t even know he liked the sweet tea,” John whispered leaning into Alex, who’d moved to sit by him. 

 

“He’s been trying to make me tell you something,” Alexander mumbled, “he’s been trying since the war.”

 

“Oh? And what might that be, dear Ham?” John turned to face Alex.

 

“I- It’s nothing, you know how the Marquis can be,” Alexander’s face was turning a curious shade of pink, John could see it spreading down below his cravat.

 

“It does not sound like nothing, Alexander, tell me.”

 

“You will think less of me, if I tell you; you will hate me,” Alexander’s eyes were glazing over with tears.

 

“Please, let me make that decision on my own accord. Do not make that choice for me,” John said, reaching his fingers under Alex’s chin, so that their eyes met. 

 

But Alexander didn't say anything, instead he leaned over and pressed his lips to John’s. There was a moment’s worth of warmth and pressure and then it was gone. Alexander was moving away, blushing furiously, tears leaking from his eyes. His hair had come undone again, it fell over half his face. He did not get up though, instead he stayed sitting; John realised this was for his benefit. John wasn't angry, he wasn’t disgusted, he was the happiest he had ever been. He couldn't find the words that described what he was feeling. 

 

“I’ll- I’ll go then? I’ll pack my stuff and leave,” Alexander moved away from John.

 

“Wait,” John grabbed Alex’s hand, he held it tight. It was smaller than his own, the fingers almost as slender as a woman’s. He wrapped it in his hands, examining it, before leaning down and kissing each finger, “don’t you dare go,” he tugged on Alex’s arm and caught his lips in a proper kiss. 

 

Their lips moved in seemingly practised synchronicity, Alex’s were dry and slightly chapped but John couldn't bring himself to care. They moved as one, perfect and unquestionably wonderful. John’s hand came up to cup Alex’s cheek stroking along his high cheekbone. 

 

“John-“ Alexander said, when they parted, he was panting.

 

“When you said the person you would marry for love was out of reach, you really didn't mean Angelica Church did you?”

 

“Non, mon Laurens, ce n'est pas le cas,” Alexander said, before he captured John’s lips again.

**Author's Note:**

> Are you in denial about people who died 200 years ago? If so then join me in the trash pile!! Please leave comments and kudos, I am always a slut for comments and kudos ty for reading!! Also I totally published this the day before you know what by complete accident.
> 
> hmu on tumblr @obi-wan-kxnxbi if you wanna yell about hamilton with me!!


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